


or, The Modern Soranus

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fisting, Anal Gaping, Birth Trauma, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Kink, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Mpreg, Pain, birth denial, birth scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24959836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Everything feels normal," Dr. McGregor says, withdrawing his fingers. Burt tries not to laugh. He's a cisgender man who's nine months pregnant. He's got a bit of his colon sticking out of his side and a transplanted uterus hooked up to his rectum. There's nothing normal about any of this.
Relationships: Gynecologist/Pregnant Man, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 19
Kudos: 192
Collections: Anonymous, Nonconathon 2020





	or, The Modern Soranus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StormyDaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormyDaze/gifts).



> The baby survives. That's about the best that can be said for this fairly graphic story of medical torture. Read the tags, and don't feel ashamed if you need to close the tab and go look at some kittens.

"How are we today?"

Burt turns his head to the side, refusing to make eye contact. Every other part of him is restrained, and the ball gag prevents him from responding, but at least he can show that much resistance to Dr. McGregor saying _we_ as though the two of them have anything in common.

"Good, good," the doctor says as though Burt had answered. He's smiling warmly as he snaps on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. "Let's just take a look, shall we?"

Burt's feet are strapped firmly into the stirrups. He grunts as Dr. McGregor pushes them up and apart, maybe a little further apart than strictly necessary.

Dr. McGregor makes sure Burt can see him anointing his gloved fingers with KY. "This will be a little cold," he says with another smile as he drops the metal tube of ointment back in the ice bath. Then he sits down on his little wheeled stool and Burt can't see him anymore. He squeezes his eyes shut, bracing.

Two thick, ice-cold fingers breach him unceremoniously. Burt bucks against the restraints and bites the gag, trying not to yelp as Dr. McGregor takes his time spreading the ointment around his anus and pushing it up inside him. "Relax," the doctor says soothingly, his fingers working in deeper. "You're very tense. This will all be much easier if you relax."

Burt hates him, hates him so much, but also knows it's true. It won't be _easy_ , but it will be maybe an iota less horrible. He tries to take deep, slow breaths through his nose.

"Very good," Dr. McGregor says.

Some part of Burt still thinks of Dr. McGregor as the eminent mentor whom he professionally respects and privately has a huge crush on. That part of him glows in response to the praise, and his cock even stirs a little, despite the chilly intrusion in his ass. The rest of him hates that part.

"Everything feels normal," Dr. McGregor says, withdrawing his fingers. Burt tries not to laugh. He's a cisgender man who's nine months pregnant. He's got a bit of his colon sticking out of his side and a transplanted uterus hooked up to his rectum. There's nothing normal about any of this. 

He hears a splash that's probably Dr. McGregor taking the metal speculum out of the ice bath. There's a long soundless moment of the instrument being coated with more KY. Burt does more deep, slow breathing, even though he knows he's going to scream.

Icy metal stabs into him. He screams into the gag, whipping his head back and forth. The cold makes him reflexively tighten up, and that only makes it hurt more. The baby kicks hard, feeling his distress. _Sorry, kid,_ he thinks. _I didn't ask to be put in this position any more than you did._

Dr. McGregor pushes the speculum in, not fast but not slow either, until it's all the way inside with the long cold metal handle pressed up against Burt's taint and balls. His nuts shrivel up like grapes turning into raisins. The handle pointing down would be much more convenient for Dr. McGregor, just like warm KY would be a more effective lubricant. But the torture is the point, and that tiny hero-worshipping part of Burt wants to cry every time he's reminded that his venerated mentor is getting off on putting him through hell.

"Relax," Dr. McGregor says again, beginning to dial the speculum open. Burt does start crying, even though he knows it will stuff up his nose and make it almost impossible to breathe. He can't help it. The cold and the pain of being stretched are equally terrible, and combined, they're devastating.

The expansion goes on and on and on. Burt's panting through his tears by the time it stops. The device's three prongs have warped his rectum into a triangle of taut flesh. At least the cold is starting to be more numbing than agonizing.

Dr. McGregor switches on the light on his headlamp and peers inside Burt's ass. "Hm," he says. "No sign of the cervix opening on its own. I had hoped—well, never mind. We'll just have to induce."

Burt panics, grunting into the gag. He'd thought—surely a C-section was the only way—

"Fortunately, I prepared for this. Let's get you started on a pitocin drip." Dr. McGregor leaves the speculum in place, strips off his gloves, and thoroughly washes his hands. Whatever his flaws, one can't fault his commitment to hygiene. He wheels over an IV stand, hangs a bag of saline and another of pitocin, and efficiently hooks them up to the IV port in the back of Burt's hand. 

A urethral catheter takes away any hope that he might be allowed to walk around. Sensors are placed for his vital signs. It takes some time for the doctor to navigate the belly band around the colostomy bag, but soon the monitor next to the examination table begins to display the baby's heart rate, which is reassuringly steady and normal. There's a straight line below it that Burt assumes will eventually register contractions. He blinks back more tears. He's assisted at enough births to have some idea of how painful this will be, and he really doubts that this gynecological Frankenstein is going to give him an epidural.

"As you may recall from your OB rotation," Dr. McGregor says in his lecture-hall voice, "we usually use prostaglandin to ripen the cervix, and then pitocin to induce contractions. However, I thought it would be more fun to do it the other way around." This doesn't sound like fun at all to Burt. It sounds like his uterus is going to want to push the baby out while his cervix is still trying to keep the baby in. It sounds like a nightmare. "The pitocin should take six to twelve hours to put you into active labor. Try to get some rest in the meantime."

He turns off the lights as he leaves. Burt is left strapped to the table, naked and spread wide open in the monitors' green glow.

The machines beep steadily, a sound he's always found comforting when they're hooked up to his patients rather than to him. Now, of course, he knows their message of _nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong_ can be an absolute lie. Hiis ass gapes obscenely around the speculum. His jaw is aching around the gag, and his tears are slowly drying on his face. And he's pregnant, a fact he still can't believe even now that he's about to give birth.

His empty stomach gurgles. He'd thought Dr. McGregor was making him fast in preparation for surgery. He could have handled surgery. This... he's not sure he'll be able to handle this. Women do it all the time, of course, but they're equipped for it. The throbbing ache in his ass reminds him vividly that his body is not.

The baby hooks a foot around his ribs and he shifts uncomfortably, trying to dislodge it. All he gets for his trouble is a stab of pain as the speculum prods his rectal wall. _Knock it off, junior,_ he thinks. _I know you want out. I want you out too. Not like this, but... at least it'll be over soon. Assuming I survive._ The thought spikes his anxiety and he listens to his heart rate pings increase. _Deep slow breaths,_ he tells himself. _Stress hormones are bad for the baby._

.....

In the end, he does doze a bit, enough to sleep through the earliest contractions. When a dull cramp startles him awake, at first he thinks he has gas or something. Then he remembers he can't have gas anymore—that's what the valve on the colostomy bag is for.

He starts counting seconds because it's better than panicking about how he's _actually in labor holy shit_. At 63 seconds, the cramp subsides. He slowly relaxes. He's still in early labor, and there's a long way to go.

Dr. McGregor doesn't bother to come back in for another few hours. By the time he opens the door, Burt's water has broken and he's grunting and huffing through a contraction about every five minutes. He squeezes his eyes shut just before Dr. McGregor flips all the lights on. After the quiet darkness, the bright fluorescent light is jarring.

"How are we doing?" the doctor says as he washes his hands. The smell of garlic drifts over from him; he's clearly just enjoyed something particularly fragrant for lunch. Burt, who's absolutely starving, feels a burst of unexpected rage at this petty little torment.

Burt chews on the gag, wishing he could lick his dry lips or ask for some water. The bag of saline has long since emptied, and the corners of his mouth are raw.

Dr. McGregor replaces the saline, deals with the colostomy bag and urine bag, mops the puddle of fluid off the floor, and checks the monitors. "All your vitals look great," he says. "Let's see how that cervix is doing."

He snaps on his gloves and sits down. The wheels of the stool squeak slightly. Burt thinks he'll probably hear that sound in his nightmares for the rest of his life, however long that is.

The speculum is still somehow inside of Burt—he's surprised the contractions haven't squeezed it out—so Dr. McGregor can't torture him by reinserting it, but he grabs the handle and wiggles it just to watch Burt flinch. Then he peers inside. "Dilated about six centimeters," he says. "I'd like to see a bit more progress than that." 

A contraction hits and Burt arches his back, groaning and panting. His swollen belly feels tight as a drum. Through the pain, he can feel the baby shifting around, probably as uncomfortable as he is, ready to vacate the premises.

Dr. McGregor watches the monitor, counting seconds and stopping at 46. "Good," he says, "you're really getting into active labor now. Contractions about five minutes apart. Progressing very nicely." Burt nods vaguely, sucking in air. His back aches.

"Time for that prostaglandin," the doctor says. Burt expects him to unwrap a pessary ( _Don't you mean suppository?_ he thinks, a bit hysterically), but instead he hears the sound of a small bottle being shaken, which usually means an injection. He braces himself for the jabbing, almost cold sensation that he's come to associate with something happening to his cervix. He doesn't know whether it's supposed to feel like that or the nerves from the transplanted organs didn't connect properly. It's weird and in some ways more distressing than pain would be.

To his utter shock, Dr. McGregor takes firm hold of his flaccid penis and withdraws the catheter. He wipes the organ with a wet wipe and swabs its side with alcohol. As Burt begins to made sounds of protest, the doctor precisely slides the needle into his penis and slowly injects the full contents of the syringe. Burt's startled squeal trails off into a moan as the cold fluid slowly warms inside him.

"Fun fact!" Dr. McGregor says cheerfully. "Prostaglandin E2 is usually used to dilate the cervix. Prostaglandin E1 is used to treat erectile dysfunction. Since you still mostly have a male-profile endocrine system, I thought it would be interesting to see whether PGE1 would do the trick in both respects."

He presses a gauze square to the injection site for a moment, then tosses it aside and delicately lets Burt's cock flop back down. Burt cranes his neck to stare at it. It looks and feels the same as normal. There's a little drop of blood on one side. He wonders how long the injection takes to kick in. Then he has another contraction and can't think about anything.

Dr. McGregor waits until the contraction is done and then pulls the speculum out of Burt's ass without bothering to close it. Burt cries out, startled and scared. The thing's been in him so long it feels like it was glued to him with dried-out KY. Did it really pull off a layer of skin or does it just feel that way?

"I want to do an ultrasound and make sure the baby's in the right position," Dr. McGregor says. Burt shakes his head rapidly, but the doctor ignores him, wheeling over the machine. The wand is thicker than the standard vaginal ultrasound wand, wide enough that Dr. McGregor struggles to stretch a condom over it. The thing has to be at least two inches across. Burt can feel his ass gaping open from hours of being stretched by the speculum and fears it'll still be a tight fit.

Dr. McGregor coats the wand with cold lubricant and sits down. The wheel squeaks again. "Just relax," he says, and he pushes it all the way into Burt's ass with one smooth shove.

It goes in so easily that Burt wonders, terrified, just how wide the speculum stretched him. Then the cold hits. It's like being fucked by an icicle, worse with his insides so sore. Burt screams, writhing.

Another contraction hits and it's all he can think about. The cramps rippling through his abdomen are almost a pleasant distraction. By the time he can think again, Dr. McGregor is shifting the wand around inside him with one hand and working the machine with the other. "Perfect," he murmurs, "head down, face up, just right."

 _He won't,_ Burt thinks, _he can't, not when I'm like this._

But as he always does, Dr. McGregor turns away from the ultrasound machine and begins to slowly work the wand in and out of Burt's ass in an indisputably sexual motion.

"Nnnn," Burt moans around the gag, "nnn, nnnnnn!" 

"Shh," Dr. McGregor says, standing up so he can see Burt's agonized face. His gloved right hand scoops up a little KY and comes up to stroke Burt's cock while his left continues to move the wand. He knows just where Burt's prostate is and makes sure to rub across it over and over. "Don't you want a little pleasure? Some endorphins for pain relief?"

To Burt's horror, he can feel himself getting hard. He's not anything like turned on, but the drugs don't care. Soon his cock is rock-solid in Dr. McGregor's fist, even harder than that time he took Viagra with—Luanne? Louise? Whatever her name was, Burt tries desperately to remember her face, her hands and mouth on him, anything that isn't what's really happening.

Another contraction stabs him. Burt chokes and sobs, totally overwhelmed by fear and violation and pain and cold and sexual stimulation that feels more intense than good. Dr. McGregor somehow manages to fuck him and jerk his cock in rhythm with the contraction, and it's more than he can handle. He starts screaming helplessly behind the gag, clenches his fists until his nails dig into his palms, screams and screams until his throat is sore. He realizes he's screaming in that _same rhythm_ but he can't stop and it all becomes one thing, and when the contraction lets up it's such a shocking relief that he jerks his hips up and comes all over the fetal heart monitor and the doctor's blue glove. It doesn't even feel good. It's just another thing that his body has been forced to endure.

"Intriguing," Dr. McGregor says. His eyes are gleaming.

Burt slumps back on the table, hiccuping.

Dr. McGregor cleans Burt's belly and his still-hard cock with cold wet wipes. He pulls out the wand and sets the ultrasound machine aside. He takes his gloves off and washes his hands. Burt watches him dully, mind empty. Another contraction hits and Burt just lets it happen to him, wheezing slowly, watching the muscle spasms in his abdomen make his erection wave back and forth. He's dissociating, he thinks vaguely. Common trauma response. Not a bad one to be having under the circumstances.

Except that he tried that before, and Dr. McGregor didn't like it at all. He doesn't like it now either. "Wake up," he says, snapping his wet fingers in Burt's face. The fine spray makes Burt flinch more than the noise does. "Don't you want to be present for the glorious scientific miracle that's the birth of your baby? Let's give you a little dexedrine. It's not like it can affect fetal development now."

Burt moans as Dr. McGregor injects the stimulant into the IV line. It hits him hard and fast, making his hands tremble like they used to when he'd chug a quad cappuccino in the middle of his shift. Now he can barely remember what coffee tastes like.

He listens to his heart rate pings speed up. They seem louder, but that's probably just the dexedrine increasing his sensitivity to stimulus. Which includes pain, and the next contraction wallops him, turning his trembling into full-body shaking. He tries to cry "No, no!" but all that comes out is an animal grunting.

"That's better," Dr. McGregor says. "But it seems like those endorphins aren't doing much for you. Let's try again."

The induced erection lasts for a full hour. Burt loses track of how many times he's forced to come, between and through the increasingly powerful contractions, but his tormenter doesn't stop until long after his semen has dried up and his balls ache like someone's kicked him. When he's finally wrung out and limp again, his heart pounding like a jackhammer, Dr. McGregor slides smoothly back into his kindly obstetrician persona as though he hadn't just chafed Burt's cock to sunburn redness.

"Another few hours, I think," he says, peering through the speculum. "The prostaglandin is doing great things for your cervix, it's past six centimeters now."

Burt is yelling through a contraction and barely hears him. He's not sure he can handle another minute of this, much less a few hours. The pain isn't like anything he's ever felt before. Those nerves are definitely connected.

"Now, you don't have a conventional birth canal," he distantly hears the doctor say, "so we need to manually stretch you out to ten centimeters." The speculum is yanked out again, and something else goes into him, something long and sort of floppy. 

Dr. McGregor waits until the contraction ends and then does something that makes a clicking sound. Through the ringing in his ears, Burt hears a small motor whir. The floppy thing inside him begins to move—wiggling? No, inflating, he realizes.

The speculum has stretched him out enough that it takes a while before the balloon, or whatever it is, gets big enough for him to feel it. Then it gets bigger, and bigger. The stretch is a sort of vicious ache. Burt keens, terrified that he's going to feel the sharper pain of something tearing. But when the motor finally stops, all he feels is the straining of muscles forced far beyond their tolerance.

As another contraction tears through him, Dr. McGregor firmly pushes the inflated object into him, keeping him from squeezing it out. When the contraction stops, he feels strips of tape being applied across his impossibly stretched anal opening, holding the balloon in place. The doctor makes sure to run the tape all the way up Burt's taint, over his sac, and onto his overused cock. When he takes his hand away, the tape tugs painfully at Burt's pubic hair and tender, irritated skin. Another contraction and the tugging becomes pulling and stinging pain, but the object stays in place.

Dr. McGregor replaces the catheter. It burns all the way down his inflamed urethra, promising a future UTI. "Hang in there," Dr. McGregor says as he leaves the room. "You're doing great."

Burt doesn't feel the slightest reaction to the praise. Any vestiges of hero worship have finally been eradicated.

.....

Burt doesn't wait for Dr. McGregor to ask how "we're" doing; as soon as the door opens, he yells, "Uhh! Nee uhhh!"

"You need to push already? Marvelous." Dr. McGregor hurries through hand-washing, snaps on gloves, and wheels his squeaky stool over. "Let's take a look."

Burt finds it in him to scream as the doctor rips off the tape, yanking out hair and leaving his skin burning. The balloon flies out of him. Dr. McGregor doesn't bother replacing it with the speculum; there's no need. He simply looks inside. "You're so open," he says, delighted. "And yes, fully dilated and effaced. I can see the baby's head." Even now he's so careful not to gender the baby. He must know—he's probably known since he tested the embryo for genetic viability before implanting it—but for whatever perverse reason, he's kept it from Burt all this time.

A contraction wipes every thought from Burt's mind except the need to push push _push_ get the baby _out_. He bears down with all his might. With the blockage out of the way at last, he feels the baby begin to move.

Unbelievably, he hears Dr. McGregor say, "Now, let's not be in such a hurry." Then a gloved fist enters him and _presses the baby back in_.

Burt shrieks, yanking against the restraints and feeling them cut into his wrists. At last the contraction stops, but he can't stop screaming and screaming and screaming—

Dr. McGregor pulls his fist out of Burt's ass and punches him in the balls. Time stops.

When Burt comes back to himself, he finds the table has been tilted back so he's lying at about a thirty-degree incline, head down near the floor and hips in the air. He thrashes feebly, but he has almost no strength left. He wonders despairingly whether all of this—the kidnapping, the surgery, the pregnancy, the constant molestation and rape—has just been leading up to Dr. McGregor's truest, deepest fantasy of watching a man die in childbirth.

"Don't worry," Dr. McGregor says, peering down at him from between his upraised legs. "If the baby shows distress, I'll let you push. But I'm just having so much fun and don't want it to end yet."

Tears trickle from under Burt's closed eyelids and run back into his hair.

With each contraction, he pushes, he can't help it, but gravity is against him and the baby stays put. Meanwhile, Dr. McGregor finds new ways to torment him. One fist in his ass and the other hand jerking his cock with the catheter still in him, not stopping even when the contraction feels like it's going to rip him apart, slowly and patiently wringing one more orgasm out of him. Two clasped hands pushed into him together, twisting and flexing—something does tear then, and it stings like the devil's own paper cut as the hands move in and out. A respite from penetration, only for his aching testicles to be grabbed and squeezed until he howls and almost faints again.

Finally Burt hears the distinctive sound of a condom wrapper being torn open. He groggily looks up just in time to see Dr. McGregor wrap a hand around his cock and shove both cock and hand into Burt's wide-open ass. "Ohhh," Dr. McGregor groans, "oh, I can feel the baby's head—fuck, I'm not going to last long, this is even better than I thought—"

A contraction begs him to _push push push_ and Burt pushes, feeling the baby move and then run up against the obstacle of the fist and cock inside him. Dr. McGregor cries out and arches his back in the throes of pleasure as Burt does the same in agony.

The beeping of the fetal heart monitor begins to slow a little, and an alert pops up on the monitor screen. "Fine, fine," Dr. McGregor gasps, hastily zipping up his pants and grabbing for a fresh glove as he steps on the pedals to reorient the table. Burt gets dizzy as his position is reversed until he's nearly standing in the stirrups. Dr. McGregor sits heavily on his stool and wheels himself forward. "Just a couple of pushes should do it," he says. "Ready?"

It's such a relief to push along with the contraction and feel the baby really _move_. Dr. McGregor reaches right up inside of Burt, guiding the child's head. Burt pushes and pushes and the head is out, the shoulders, the rest of the baby in a wet rush, and suddenly there's nothing moving inside him and he panics because the baby should be moving, is the baby okay—

Then he hears a thin wail and realizes he's really done it, there was a whole live tiny person inside him who's now out in the world.

"Don't faint on me," Dr. McGregor says sharply. "You still need to deliver the placenta."

The baby is somewhere off to his right, still crying. He tries to look for them but his eyes can't focus very well. 

His belly tightens, this contraction a ghost of the others. He pushes anyway. There's a tug, and something slippery comes out of him. _I did it,_ he thinks through a fog. _I did the whole thing._

Dr. McGregor tilts the table flat again, leaving Burt strapped do it, and goes to do something else—taking care of the baby, probably. Burt expects to pass out, but for some reason he doesn't. He just lies there, feeling his body ache and tremble and bleed, waiting for something else horrible to happen. It's been so long since there was a time with nothing horrible happening. He doesn't know what to do with it.

At last the doctor steps into his field of vision, carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle. He gently places the baby on Burt's chest. Burt lifts his head, trying to see, but it's hard when he's flat on his back. The bundle is warm. It wriggles a bit in a way he almost recognizes from when those wriggles were happening inside him.

He wants to hold the baby, but his wrists are still shackled, probably bruised and bleeding. He wants to say "Hi, junior," but the rubber ball gag is still levering his mouth open. He makes a soft noise that would be pleading if he had any expectation that a plea would be answered.

Dr. McGregor beams at them. "Look what we did," he says.

Burt lets his head fall. He refuses to acknowledge any _we_ , even one that's true.

Dr. McGregor picks up the baby again. "I'm going to feed her," he says.

 _Her,_ Burt thinks. _A girl. I... have a daughter._

"Hooray for baby formula," the doctor adds. He's chatty, clearly happy and relieved. "I'm looking forward to seeing whether I can induce lactation in you, but in the meantime, it's nice not to have to explain to anyone why I need donor milk."

Burt closes his eyes. In some ways it's a relief to know what the next torture will be.

Tucking the baby into one arm, Dr. McGregor unstraps Burt's feet from the stirrups and extends a section from the table so they have somewhere to go. Burt stretches his legs slowly. His body is one big muscle spasm. His ass is on fire. His thighs are sticky with amniotic fluid and blood.

His hands remain shackled, but it's almost as good to have the ball gag unstrapped. "Not a word," Dr. McGregor warns him. Burt nods. He knows the doctor doesn't like him to speak. That was made very clear early on.

"I don't think postpartum complications are likely," Dr. McGregor says as though he's helped a thousand men deliver babies, "but I'll keep an eye on your vitals just in case. You get some rest."

He takes the baby ( _My daughter!_ ) and leaves Burt in the dark, exhausted and sore and trying to figure out why the thing he most wants to say is "Thank you."

**Author's Note:**

> The full title of _Frankenstein_ is _Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus_. While looking for a way to riff on it, I stumbled across a reference to [Soranus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soranus_of_Ephesus), a famous Greek physician known for his four-volume book on gynecology. The fact that his name can be punned as _sore anus_ is pure wonderful serendipity.


End file.
